


I Went Walking After Midnight

by Batwynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, BAMF Stiles, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Death, F/F, F/M, Hurt Derek, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Major Character Undeath, More tags later, OCs - Freeform, Oblivious Scott, Stiles-centric, Terry Pratchett ref, Time Travel, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9629252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: Stiles never really gets a lot of opportunity for surprises or spontaneity in his job. Sure, sometimes there’s a falling piano (classic!), or a bear exiting stage left, or a giant snowman collapsing on the town hall literally seconds after setting the world record for the world’s largest snowman. But after a while, even those fantastical events fade in his memory, and really, it’s not like anything changes.Everybody dies._______Stiles picks up dead people, Scott mans the gate room, and Derek Hale doesn't die like he's supposed to.





	1. An Ex-Parrot

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles never really gets a lot of opportunity for surprises or spontaneity in his job. Sure, sometimes there’s a falling piano (classic!), or a bear exiting stage left, or a giant snowman collapsing on the town hall literally seconds after setting the world record for the world’s largest snowman. But after a while, even those fantastical events fade in his memory, and really, it’s not like anything changes.

Everybody dies.

It’s dark and—if time were relevant—early down in the ol’ Destination Station when Stiles arrives with his thermos full of triple-espresso-shot mocha and his Bag of Expirational Materials™. The news board has Pompeii playing across its screens again, along with updates on lotto numbers, a tally of deaths from the fourth Avian Flu epidemic of 2018, and a smiling weather man reminding them to bring umbrellas with them, it’s a rainy day for death.

Stiles forgot the umbrella, but whatever. You gotta look the look if you want to play the part, and drippy and sodden goes really well with the whole, ’ _OOOH! AAAH! You’re dead, let’s go_ ,’ thing.

Weaving his way through a gathering of horses—"Wrong floor!“ "NEIGH!"—Stiles makes his way to the teller desk and plasters on his best and brightest smile. "Heeeeello Darlene! Got anything good for me today?”

Darlene, who’s name might remind you of ‘darling’, drives the sweet, sharp daggers of her hateful gaze into Stiles until he slides his eyes a little to the left of her shoulder. Lizard brain meet monkey mind. Lizard wins, again.

“Your card,” she hisses, sliding the pale-yellow punch card through the slot in the glass, and snatching her fingers back just in case Stiles gets any ideas. Something with an axe does tickle the back of his mind, but he’s got work to do, and the lizard always wins.

“Have a _great_ day, Darlene!” He chirps, fetching his card and striding off towards the escalators like a boss. Because he is a boss, a captain of his own destiny, a champion amongst champions. Wait, that means they’re all champions, therefor no one is special.

Stiles scowls, and stuffs his thermos under his arm so he can give the punch card a look over. It’s a Thursday out where time matters, for some reason. Stiles lets out a loud unhappy sound with his tongue and lips that _would_ be embarrassing if he had any dignity left.

But Thursdays are the friggen worst, and everyone knows it. In fact, he can hear someone else making the same noise as—never mind, it was one of the horses.

  
**Thursday Schedule for M:**

1\. Elizabeth Winderton - Stagecoach robbery and crash. Mild decapitation. / Cambridge / UK / 2• 10 • 1750

2\. John Adams Smith - Drowning in bathtub. Water inhalation. / New York City / USA / 10 • 16 • 1972

**Amber Event:**

Justin Bieber Concert / 8:00PM / South Dakota States / Southern Territories / 6•17•2020

Ashly Duval -smoke inhalation / Amanda Fitz -crushing/internal bleeding / Benjamin Smith -tiger/mauling / George Plat -smoke inhalation / Kaytee Edams -suffocation/choking on small object  
  
MULTIPLE RETRIEVERS ON SCENE • ARRIVE ONLY AT ALLOTTED TIME • TAKE ONLY THE NAMES PROVIDED TO YOU • DO NOT INTERACT WITH FELLOW RETRIEVERS • FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN PENALTY OR TEMPORARY REMOVAL • FAILURE TO RETRIEVE WILL RESULT IN PERMANENT REMOVAL

 

“Fucking Justin Bieber again,” he mutters, tempted to crumple the punch card into pulp and pretend he never received one. Darlene would skin him over a hot fire for that, so no, Stiles isn’t going to do that. Nope. Stiles is going to get on over to Gate 77 and go pick up that poor old Elizabeth from her mild decapitation.

Kissing his triple shot mocha goodbye, Stiles shoves it into his bag, slips his mask down over his face, and steps up to the gate.

“Where to?” Scott, the Gate Guard asks asks cheerfully. “Somewhere fun?”

“Never, just 1750 again.”

“Well,” he chirps, waving him in. “Hop on through and focus on your date and place!”

“Dude, I’ve done this over a million times, I think I know how it’s done.”

“Think real hard!”

“On the date and place?” Stiles drawls as he steps up to the precipice.

Scott’s million watt smile blinds him. “That’s right!”

Stiles steps through the gate with a new scowl and a renewed sense of curiosity about the Scotts.

 

* * *

 

 

Thursday comes and goes in a flash of fire, angry tigers, and a single middle-aged man wearing a backwards baseball cap screaming and crying on stage. The results were the same—people died—but at least Stiles has some comedy gold to share at their weekly BreLunSnaInner. It’s been Pompeii for almost everyone this week, so a little humor will definitely be welcome at the table tomorrow.

He wonders, as he crawls into bed after work, if he should invite the Scotts to their BreLunSnaInner. Or maybe just one Scott. He’s not actually sure you _can_ invite only one Scott, or if all 3,789 of them will show up at your door anyway.

Stiles falls asleep thinking about hive-minds, masturbation, and quietly hoping that all the Bieber tigers were collected safely.

 

 

* * *

 

The next day on his punch card is a Sunday.

Sundays are preachers suffocating themselves a thousand different ways, mothers on their way to church in every century, and small children choking on every object imaginable. Sundays are weird, so Stiles prepares himself for weird by changing his uniform up a bit.

Everyone gets a selection of uniforms to chose from, and really, you’re left to it. If you want to dress up like a dude from Woodstock, joint and all? Go for it. You want to go classic, get your skeleton on? You do you. Fur coat, poodle skirt? Go nuts. Management does not care. The only time they _do_ care is during Amber Events, or Pinions.

Amber Events need continuity to really work, so having period-appropriate clothing is expected. Retrievers are pretty much 100% visible to _everyone_ during Amber events. This is mostly due to the excess of adrenaline, and unusually high levels of Gate magic all over the god damn place from so many Retrievers popping in. It’s a shit-fest of chemicals and magic, and chances are, some living nobody is going to see you standing next to the dead guy you’re there to pick up, and it’d be _nice_ if you looked like you belonged at a Justin Bieber concert rather than the Middle Ages.

The same goes for Pinions. Pertinent, unchangeable, fixed moments in time that don’t always have deaths, but must be observed by at least two to three Retrievers. Someone _has_ to be there for it, because it’s the literal fork in the road. Time can travel any of the millions of paths that come forth from that exact moment, and without a Retriever (or three) present to log which path is chosen, the entire system can fail within a few seconds.

Why do Retrievers have to be dressed up and visible during these moments? Stiles is, like, 99.9% sure it’s only to photobomb the shit out of people.

But, whatever. They’re actually pretty rare, earth shattering or not-shattering moments. They don’t come around chronologically, so no one really knows when to expect the next one until the next one is suddenly upon them.

This Sunday is _not_ a Pinion. At least, that’s what Stiles though when he slipped on his Black Plague bird-face mask and robes. It’s actually from the 21st century and inaccurate, but he gets a kick out of messing with some of his retrievals. It’s not like it matters, really, they’re tossed into the great shuffle board of soul-re-sorting two minutes after he shows up anyway.

“Daaaaarlene!”

“ **Go.”**

Lizard - 1,389  
Monkey - 0

“Stiles!” Scott calls out from gate 20. “Where you off to now?”

Stiles scans his card as he heads over, expecting nothing interesting as usual.

“Some guy in the 2000’s first, I guess. A shooting?” Stiles furrows his brow. “It says 'shooting/ poisoning / internal bleeding/ head trauma / suffocation’. I’ve never, ever seen that before. Is this guy Rasputin 2, Everything But the Kitchen Sink Boogaloo?”

“Wow, sounds rough,” Scott whistles, leaning against his guard station with a shrug and a smile like they aren’t taking about someone’s torturous death. Stiles is now considering robotics over hive-mind clones. Then again, the empathy chip is probably missing from all of them down here.

Sighing, Stiles accepts his fate like a bitter pill. “This ain’t gonna be pretty, that’s for sure. Maybe I can win the Bad Luck Draw this week.”

Scott laughs brightly. “I never win that.”

“Because you’re a guard, you don’t go out there.”

“True!”

“And I don’t think you actually sleep or eat… or poop,” Stiles mutters under his breath, tucking his punch card into his sleeve. He feels like a wizard now, and wiggles his fingers at Scott as he passes through the gate and into 2015.

  
His boots skid on moss as he drops into space and time with a crackle and a pop. The first thing he notices is the fact that he seems to be in some sort of clearing situated around the gate’s entry point, but the second—more offensive—thing that he notices is the gag-worthy stench of something very dead.

He chokes out an, “Oh _god_!” And wishes fervently that he’d bothered to stick the nice-smelling bag of whatsits in the beak of his mask before he left. Anything to block out all that… gross. Just gross. He shouldn’t have to smell this, god, they’re usually fresher than _that_.

After a few valiant attempts at removing itself from his body, Stiles’ stomach gives up with a final gurgle and a gag, and he’s finally free to find the source of the stench. Presumably, if one follows the smell, one will find the guy he’s been sent to pick up.

But, while it’s not completely unusual for a Retriever’s arrival to be greeted with an already occurring death or deaths, Stiles has three separate awards on his shelf for his Retrieval Times and Gating Technique. He _always_ arrives directly on scene, at the exact moment he’s needed, for the person he was ordered to retrieve. Which is why his chest fills the unfamiliar prickle of fear when he scans the clearing around him and finds not one dead body, but dozens. At least a good thirty people are scattered around on the ground, all of them in varying states of decay, and all situated around a great big stump that Stiles just so happens to be standing on.

“Ooooh shit,” he whispers, his knees automatically bending to drop him low against the mossy stump. It’s reflex, even after a thousand years of doing this. Nothing seems to be stirring in all that dead, but that’s not exactly reassuring right now because all that dead shouldn’t even _be_ there.

An Amber Event is assigned to any event with twenty five deaths or more, typically causing enough of a disruption in the timeline to require not only Retrievers for the dead, but others to record the event. Mass suicides, bombings, even certain bus crashes become Amber events as soon as the deaths tally up enough for the algorithm to catch it.

Stiles presses his lips together tightly, and tries not to freak out. Because this… there’s no way this isn’t an Amber Event. There’s got to be more than twenty five people here, never mind the single guy Stiles was supposed to pick up who technically should be dying right here and now. There’s literally no one in the act, they’re past that now. They’re post death.

How did this happen?

Stiles swallows back a probably super embarrassing noise, and slowly crawls across the many rings of the stump under him until he’s nearly face to face with several of the bodies leaning against the tree. One—a woman–has gone a sort of funny, grayish color that Stiles has seen a million times before on later Retrevals. The semi-fresh look, when the blood has pooled towards the back or bottom of the body, leaving the rest of the flesh looking colorless and almost waxy. Stiles doesn’t bother to check for her soul around the clearing, she would stay nearby if she was still present. The second body, some blonde looking dude who’s missing both eyes and looking pretty goopy these days, is leaning against her like they just fell asleep together or something. Only, the timing is off, and—no, you know what, this entire thing is off. Something is seriously wrong here, and no fucking away is Stiles getting caught in the middle of it.

“Alright,” he says, straightening back up and scowling at the mess bellow him. “Wherever you are, Derek Hale, i’m leaving you for someone else.”

Something moves. Quick, like a flinch.

Stiles is too caught up in being royally freaked out to do anything other than scream when the moving thing stumbles its way out of the tree line and collapses just outside the mess of death around the stump.

“W-what are you?” The thing asks.

And because Stiles is good at sassing his way through stressful situations, he shoots back, “Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?”

The thing—humanoid person thing—narrows its blood-dulled eyes at him and leans a little heavier on the arm supporting most of its weight. He—it is probably a 'he’. He’s lacking a shirt but rocking some chest hair—looks… not good. Like someone ran him over a few too many times, then tossed him in a lake just for fun. There’s open wounds in claw-shaped clusters around his body, more than a few bruises that are already fading to yellow at the edges, and some very distinct markings around the man’s wrists that any idiot would recognize as signs of being tied up. His hair, which might have been nice once, is a greasy, wild mess atop his head, and whatever clothing he has left is a lost cause.

He looks an awful lot like he’s been shoot, poisoned, internal bleedinging, smacked over the head a few times, and maybe slightly strangled.

Stiles knows exactly who this man is.

“Derek Hale!” He yelps, pointing at the offending offender. “You’re supposed to be dead! It’s past time!”

Derek Hale’s expression does not change, but that arm holding him up is starting to shake.

“You’re not supposed to be breathing. Or glaring…” Stiles has no idea where he’s going with this anymore. “You aren’t dead.”

“No.”

“Well that’s new,” Stiles remarks, and gets a confused grunt in response. Derek Hale, in all his bruised and bloodied glory, doesn’t seem so inclined to explain how or why he’s alive, apparently. Which leaves Stiles to strike up the conversation again.

_Or you could just run away._

Or he could do that.

“What _are_ you?” Derek asks again, his voice thin and rough like he’s gritting his teeth. Which, honestly, he probably is. He looks ten seconds away from collapsing and maybe dying. It’s not on time, but that’s what’s supposed to happen.

Stiles hunkers down on the tree stump, and studies the man through the glass eyes of his mask. He looks weak, but holding himself up enough to glare at Stiles. He looks bloody, but his wounds don’t seem to be bleeding anymore. He seems battered, but even his bruises are starting to fade away and—"fucking hell, you’re a supe.“

The man’s expression breaks into an almost adorable pout of confusion. "I’m not soup.”

“A supernatural being,” Stiles explains. “Probably not a vampire, going by that blood all over you. God, I hope you’re not a skinwalker because, like, i’m not specist but every single skinwalker I’ve ever met was creepy, and didn’t know the meaning of personal space, and smelled like rotten tomatoes.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but the glare is back in force. Stiles probably just insulted his entire species, didn’t he? It was probably the tomato thing, all supes are weird about smells.

“I mean, it’s not awful,” he quickly adds, not missing the way Derek’s body seems to grow more steady by the second. He’s fucking _healing_. “Tomatoes don’t smell to bad when they rot. Not like meat, or, you know, dead things. You know, living-dead things are super bad sometimes. Once, when I was visiting Iceland for a Pinion event, there were at least forty Draugr there, all milling around and grumpy because their king-lord person thing had his grave broken into and they took it out on the villagers. Man, _that_ was a bad smell.”

Derek’s eyebrows furrow. “Are you a spirit?”

What?

Stiles looks down at himself to check, because who knows, maybe he mixed up his robes and grabbed Ghost. But no, it’s black robes and a bird mask, nothing too… okay, Stiles sees it now.

Sighing, he pulls the mask up to rest on top of his head, and tries to offer the poor guy an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that, I didn’t think I’d be talking to you this much.”

“Really? Because you seem to have no problem with talking,” Derek replies, somehow managing to get even more annoyed. He’s sitting up now, moving into a crouch like something ready to pounce.

Stiles puts his hands up, and scrambles backwards. “Whoa, hey, don’t get mad at me. If anyone should be mad, it’s me! You’re supposed to be dead!”

“Well i’m not.”

“Well that’s not good!”

“It is for me,” Derek points out.

“Okaay,” Stiles can’t argue with that. “But you have no idea how bad this is for me.”

Derek stands, rolling his shoulders, cracking something ugh in his neck, and shaking out his limbs like it was just a bad case of pins and needles. Shit, that’s kind of scary-hot in a way Stiles didn’t know was possible.

Well, at least he thinks so until the guy says, “I don’t really care,” and starts to walk away.

“Wha—? Oh no you don’t,” Stiles snarls, taking a running jump to get over the bodies around the tree and landing hard on his knees. Derek, however, doesn’t turn back for a second. He’s already reached the line of trees surrounding the clearing of dead things. Stiles hesitates, biting his lip as he eyes the scattered corpses. They never covered this in training, what to do when literally everything goes wrong. His target isn’t dead, or apparently dying anytime soon. He’s got a field full of bodies that have either already been collected without an Amber Event notice, or left to wander back into the world as Wraiths.

Stiles shudders, really super-duper hoping that isn’t the case, and snaps his eyes back to Dereks retracting back.

Stay, report back to base, or follow the mysterious not-dying man into the woods?

Stiles hikes up his robes, tucks his bag under his arm, and takes off running after him. “Hey! You can’t just leave me here!”

Derek scoffs as he shoulders through some bushes and keeps walking. Stiles lets out an irritated sound, and hurries after him. He has to silently remind himself that the mortals can’t hurt him when they’re here for retrievals. So there’s literally no reason to be afraid of stupid Derek Hale and his stupid not-dying probably a skinwalker body. But, as he’s catches up with the guy and sees _claws_ , Stiles remembers that knowing something isn’t the same as believing it.

Derek catches him staring, and oh yay, there’s sharp teeth for snarling, too. “Kid, you sure as hell aren’t going to stop me.”

“I have to,” Stiles blurts out, trying to keep pace with him and stumbling over tree roots. “Dude, I can’t just let you walk away. You were scheduled to die, it’s fixed.”

For the first time since he laid eyes on him, Stiles finally sees a look of actual concern flash over Derek’s face before the shutters come down again. His face looks better than before, but even Stiles can the way his cheekbones jut out a little too sharply, and the way the shadows under his eyes don’t fade like the rest of his bruising. Whatever this guy has been battling, it’s nothing new, and probably whatever lead him to the moment he was supposed to die.

“What do you mean 'fixed?’” He asks, starling Stiles out of his concentration. Walking backwards through the woods while focusing on some guy’s face is probably not the safest thing to do.

“I mean—nyooup!”

Stiles hits the ground hard, punching the air out of his lungs and driving his teeth into his tongue. His mask is gone, pulling the hood away from his dusty brown hair and leaving him feeling exposed and _ow ow ow owowow!_

His vision blurs as he tries to lift his head, and it takes Stiles too long to realize that that’s _blood_ filling his mouth. He remembers, for a moment, the first lesson about visiting the mortal realm. How Retrievers technically can’t be harmed by mortals while on their usual missions, but when they’re made mostly solid by a Pinion or Amber Events, shit can happen if you’re not careful. Retrievers can suffer the pain of, say, a tiger gnawing their face off. Will they die? Nope, that’s not a thing they can do anymore, but they will return back to base in excruciating amounts of pain until someone gets them to the medical center.

Which is why tripping on a tree root and _feeling_ the pain of biting his tongue in half can only mean one thing.

“Oh s-shit,” Stiles slurs, dazedly watching Derek loom over him. “ _You’re_ a Pinion.”

Which is cool and all, until said Pinion stomps on his face and knocks him out.

 

 


	2. Well Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a rubber ducky saves the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek and crew are a bit rough with Stiles in this chapter due to some serious trust issues and set off a panic attack. It's cannon level violence, but I thought i'd warn you anyway. Detailed warnings at the end of the chapter.

 

 

It's all sunshine and smiles. 

 

His mother laughs so sweetly, as sweet as honey and banana sandwiches washed down with lemonade. Stiles loves that she always makes his drink sweeter than her own. He knows this because he snuck a sip out of her glass and wow, his mama is strong! 

 

Was strong. 

 

Was.

 

Stiles may not be able to remember her face anymore, but he remembers that she was strong, strong as his father's arms holding him together at her funeral. He remembers thinking selfish thoughts when she disappeared into the ground, but he doesn't remember what they were. He remembers the salty burn of tears down his throat, and the color of their bathroom wallpaper, but not why he was crying in the bathtub.

 

He can’t remember details, just little bursts of an existence that could belong to anyone. School, friends, sunlight through the trees, his skinny, speckled reflection blurred in a car window, ice cream dripping on his shirt, an angry face breaking into sadness. Tons of guilt, a colored pencil stuck in the ceiling, scuffed shoes, broken arms, and loneliness. 

 

Whatever his life was, it was nothing unique or special. Every moment could have belonged to someone else, every part seeming to fit a universal mold. 

 

And, well, everybody dies. 

 

Everyone except Derek Hale, apparently. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

His wake up call is a foot shoved into his ribs, gentle but insistent. Groaning more in annoyance than pain, Stiles manages to crack an eye open, only to see that stupid, glaring eyebrow man looming over him still. There's a loud, 'fuck you' on the tip of his tongue, but there’s also a painful bite mark from falling ass over teakettle. He can honestly say he has no real memory of feeling pain, it’s not one of those things that sticks around after you become a Retriever. So pain just... doesn't make sense anymore. His entire face feels all swollen and achy, and something in his chest area doesn't feel too good either. 

 

 _Was it always this bad_? he wonders, tentatively opening his other eye. Derek Hale comes into focus, squeaky clean and looking at Stiles with what must be his default bitch face. Cleanliness must mean world-time has passed. Stiles uses what’s left of his strength to lift up his hand, and flip him off.

"Huh," grunts Derek. "So you're not that ancient." 

"I'm technically older than you, kid," Stiles spits out.

 

"You don't act or look like it.”

 

“And you don't look like a massive bag of dicks,” Stiles sneers, "Oh wait, you do." 

 

Derek makes a weird rumbling noise deep in his chest and narrow his eyes. "What are you?" 

Are they still on that? Stiles votes to keep ignoring the question, and lifts his head to take a look around instead. They've obviously moved locations, with the whole lack of trees and dead things laying about. Apparently, Derek carried his unconscious body off to some kind of high-ceiling building that reminds Stiles a lot of the gate room back at base. This sparks a surprising little pang of homesickness in him, not something he’d expect for a place that basically hijacked his soul. Frowning up at the shattered glass dome in the middle of the ceiling and the crumbling arches, Stiles feels a vague sense of unease. He’s seen train and subway stations before, he knows what he’s looking at. But… he can’t help but feel a different sort of recognition. Almost like he’s been here before. Which is impossible, he’d remember Retrieving someone from wherever they are. Bacon something? He didn’t focus hard enough on the name after he stepped through the gate, because, you know, dead bodies. As soon as he opens his mouth to ask where he is, Derek grinds the full weight if his boot onto his outstretched hand.

“What are you doing!?" Stiles shrieks, trying to roll away from the growing pressure on his hand. He's super really not used to this pain thing—seriously, is this normal? He can't remember, and anyway, who even _does_ something like this?

 

"Answer my questions," Derek says flatly with his creepy, unchanging expression. "And I'll stop."

 

"I can't—" Stiles sputters, wincing when Derek's lip curls. "No seriously, I can't tell you! I'm not allowed to talk about it, not even under duress. Jesus, would you just stop— please!" 

 

Derek steps back a moment later, allowing Stiles to curl around his hand and try oh-so-hard not to start crying. He hasn't cried since his first retrieval, because, yeah, there’s nothing quite like the sight or smell of dozens of women and children locked in a burning factory building. He’s totally not going to cry over a bruised hand. But he also doesn't want to move from his fetal position on the ground. Not even when Derek crouches down next to him and starts sniffing at him like a weird… eyebrow-dog.

 

"Oh god, you're a werewolf," Stiles groans, curling inward to make himself even smaller. So much makes sense now. So much Stiles doesn’t even want to think about, actually, because no fucking wonder he didn’t die from all those things. Werewolves can probably survive a shooting, poisoning, internal bleeding, head trauma, suffocationy death if they try hard enough. Not that it’s suppose to happen after their soul has been marked for death, which it was. Hence Stiles, you know, being here in the first place.

 

There’s a shuffling sound, more sniffing, and Derek murmurs, ”You don't have much of a scent." 

Stiles peeks out from his—owfuckow—hands and offers a weak, “Go me.” 

"That's highly unusual, even for an immortal creature," Derek explains, leaning in and snuffling some more. Now Stiles can't even imagine how he missed it; the claws, the wolfy grace, the walking around after nearly dying, the Resting Bitch Face. Literally every werewolf he's ever met, throughout all of time and space, has some sort of Resting Bitch Face Syndrome. They all also happen to be unfairly beautiful, but Stiles stops right there because no. Not after all the hand-stepping-crushing stuff. Derek is obviously ugly on the inside, where it counts. 

 

"Does it hurt much?" 

 

Stiles snaps his head up and snarls, “Are you kidding me? What do you think?!" 

Derek doesn't offer him a reply, but simply reaches out and grabs Stiles' arm like he can do whatever he wants. Granted, there's not a hell of a lot Stiles can do to stop him without his Bag of Expirational Materials™, but that doesn't stop him from trying to shrug away from Derek's touch. Unfortunately, his grip only grows tighter, because of course it does.

"I don't know what you want now, but I’m pretty sure I told you to fuck off," Stiles tells him, leveling a glare at the offending appendage that, even as he watches, crawls with black tendrils that cover the man’s arm then fade into nothing. It's both fascinating and slightly horrifying because it sort of looks like worms—but, actually, the pain in his hand is doing a pretty good job of fading, too. That can't be a coincidence. 

 

"Are you... is that, like, some kind of healing thing? I've never seen that before,” Stiles says, rising on his elbow to get a better look. There are more lines now, enough to make Derek flinch like maybe he's been kicked in the face, too. It’s satisfying to watch, and all, but Stiles wants to know more. "Is this how you heal yourselves? It can't be, because I _have_ seen that, and it's usually stuff just magically stitching itself back together all gross-like. Except for this one time with a sword, and there was head chopping and shit, it wasn’t pretty. I swear the head was still alive for a solid two minutes after they cut it off, and you can bet twitching, bleeding eyes were my nightmare fuel for a looong time after that.” 

 

“You talk a lot for someone who refuses to talk," Derek remarks, before pulling his hand away and shaking it out. "That didn't heal you, but you won't be in pain anymore." 

Stiles looks down at his slowly bruising fingers, and lets out a soft, 'huh,' before he realizes how stupid that is. "Wait a second... that could cause even more damage! If I can't feel it, how do I know what's going on? What if I make it worse? What if I lose a finger? What if I have a concussion? I could be dying and not even know it." 

 

Derek scowls. "You're not dying." 

 

"Oh, right, I can't really die anyway." Stiles laughs at himself a little, and pushes himself up on wobbly feet. Derek doesn't offer him another hand—he's too busy sniffing and looking all suspicious again—but Stiles manages it on his own, and he’d probably refuse his help anyway. He’s actually a little impressed with how steady he is, considering how much horrible stuff has happened since he walked through that gate. Stiles really just wants to get back to base, hand this case over to someone else, and sleep through at least five work slots. Which will be easy, if he can just find the gate again. 

 

Stiles blinks. He can't even feel the gate anymore. 

 

Stiles tilts his head to the side, frowning, and closes his eyes to try to get a feel for it. Usually, a Retriever can always feel the hum of gate magic just under their skin, but usually they aren't carted off to wherever by a werewolf. Usually, they aren't kicked in the goddamn face or stepped on. Who knows what that does to magic perception. 

 

"Where the hell are we?" he asks, not bothering to open his eyes. There's something there, something running lines under the earth all around them. He's not sure if he's feeling the gate, or if that's something else. Wherever they are, there's a lot of lose power just floating around. 

 

“Subway station.”

  
“Yeah, knew that. Where as in what town and country?”

 

Derek lets out a strange noise somewhere to his left. "You don't know what country you’re in?" 

  
Stiles tries not to pout. ”I know when I am, that’s usually more important.” 

  
"What the hell does that mean?"

  
“I already told you, I can't answer that." Stiles turns to the north, feeling a stronger pull from that direction. That could be it, it does feel familiar.

  
"You can't tell me what you are, or what you meant about me being dead, or why you're talking about 'when' instead of 'where'?" 

 

"Yup, them's the rules," Stiles sighs, opening his eyes to find yet another glare headed his way. Glorious whatever, Stiles is 110% done with this retrieval. Someone else can figure it out. Clapping his now painless hands, Stiles plasters on a grin, and says, “Now that we're done with that, show me the way back to the tree and I'll get out of your undead hair." 

 

Derek's glare rises to level 3 intensity. 

 

"And give me back my bag." 

 

"No."

 

"Don't single syllable at me, you overgrown jackass. It's my bag, give it back so I can leave."

"Not until you tell me—"

 

"I can't!" Stiles rages. "No matter how many times you insist, and step on my hands, and growl and snarl at me, the answer is going to be the same. I can't. Fucking. Tell you!" Stiles jabs a finger at him, "And You! You have no idea what's going on here. None. At. All. You are a small, tiny object in a huge, overly complicated universe! If you had died—like you were supposed to—then you would have been yet another insignificant blip on this irrelevant timeline! You would have been nothing more than a—a fucking burp!" 

 

Derek has the audacity to snort. 

 

"Oh shut up, I'm tired and freaked out and I want my goddamn bag back." 

 

"I don't have it," replies Derek, his eyes cutting quickly to the left and back again. "I gave it to one of my betas to look after." 

 

"One of your whats?" Stiles stops, and holds up a hand. "No, you know what, I don't want to know. Just give me my bag so I can go home and not deal with you anymore.”

Derek’s eyes don't move this time, but Stiles notices a slight tilt to his head, as if he's listening to something just a little too far away. Then, Stiles hears it. A shuffling sound, a quiet thump, and a soft curse. He turns to follow the sound and catches a dark blur scamper away through some rubble, leaving a lump on the floor. 

His bag—he'd recognize that lump anywhere. 

 

"Don't," Derek warns. 

 

Stiles does.

 

Anticipating the werewolf's attack isn't hard. Stiles just swerves to the far right, and bolts for his bag. He feels the claws miss him, feels the displacement of air as his sneakers slide on the grimy tile floor and Derek twists to grab for him again. However strong Derek is, he's no match for a Full Speed Ahead Stiles, thank you very much. He's already scrambling over broken chairs and the sharp metal framework of fallen skylights when he hears Derek's roar of anger. He lets out an involuntary giggle, and puts on another burst of speed.

 

It takes a final leap—slide—owshitglassfuck—and he's got it! Unfortunatly, he’s left fumbling with the metal clasps to get his bag open before that bastard gets to kick him in the face again. He can hear him climbing over the metal, the quick crunch of glass as he draws closer. There’s an echo of something else creeping up behind him, and Stiles curses his stupid friggen brain for deciding Plague Doctor was a good idea for a theme because, seriously?!

 

Stiles yanks his bag open just as another snarl rends the air, grabs the first thing he sees, and throws it at the furious eyebrow-less face only inches away from him. 

 

Something makes a loud, 'SQUEE-eek!' sound as it bounces of Derek’s shifting face and lands on the floor between them. The guy's red, glowing eyes are already fixated on it, but Stiles refuses to look. This really couldn't get any worse. 

 

Derek asks, slowly, "Did you just... throw a rubber ducky at me?" 

 

Stiles opens his mouth... and shuts it again. Someone's stifling a laugh behind him, and Stiles snaps his head around to find another pair of glowing eyes fading into the dark behind him. Yellow. Creepy yellow eyes. 

 

A screaming voice comes from his bag, nearly stopping his heart. 

 

“Come on baby, don't fear the reaper!”

 

Stiles glances back at the werewolf in front of him, and gestures lamely at his bag. 

"I'm just gonna…" he pulls out the phone and winces. 

 

“Baby take my hand, don't fear the reaper!”

  
Derek's expression is hard to read without eyebrows, but his chin dips in a small nod so that's good enough for Stiles. No murder allowed while he's on the phone. Oh god, unless this call is what he thinks it is. Then he might just ask Derek to finish him off after all. 

 

 "Heeeello?" he answers as soon as he taps the screen, forcing a smile on his face for the unseen person on the other end. Fake it till you make it, right? 

 

"Agent ROSCO, you are currently exterior to your mission parameters," an authoritative recording tells him. Derek visibly perks up, and shuffles a little closer. Fucking werewolves, Stiles forgot they have super hearing or whatever. Crap. 

 

"Uh, right, so I am," Stiles responds, taking a step back. Derek follows him, ignoring the, 'No Thanks We Don't Want Any,' gestures Stiles makes at him. Craaaap.

 

"You are currently two hours past your return time." 

 

"Uh huh," Stiles swats at Derek again, jerking his hand back when the man flashes his teeth at him in response. "Y-yeah, that's a thing."

 

"We have yet to receive confirmation of the death of: Derek Hale." 

 

Crap.

Their eyes meet, and that steaming pot of panic Stiles has had stewing since he first arrived in this stupid time is bubbling back up again. A flicker of something wild and angry appears in Derek's eyes, making Stiles scramble for an answer that won't get him killed right here and now, or permanently removed from his job. Because, well, he likes helping people's souls, and the alternative to being a Retriever is being dead dead. Permanent dead, no backsies. 

 

"I–uh... there's been a delay." Derek’s eyes flash, and Stiles quickly corrects himself, "A mistake! There's a mistake in the info, I'm just going to fix that, and I'll be right back." 

 

"You are not authorized to make corrections." 

 

"Okay, but what if maybe I can?" 

 

"You are not authorized to make corrections." 

 

Stiles bites his lip. This wouldn't be happening if he just took the SB exam. Retrievers with a higher classification can do pretty much anything, go anywhere, find anyone. Hell, they're even allowed to vote for Pinion Event changes if it’s important enough, thereby literally changing the future. But Stiles hadn't taken the exam, because his two rude-ass friends said he didn't have the stones and he believed them because they're his shitty friends, and for shit’s sake, he would have passed and he wouldn't even be in this situation! 

 

"Agent ROSCO, please log Derek Hale's soul appropriately, and return via gate 20 or 22 immediately, or you will be RETRIEVED." 

 

Stiles feels a sick swoop in his stomach as the line is disconnected while clawed fingers close over the hand holding his phone. 

 

"Well, Agent Rosco," Derek says with an irritatingly creepy grin, "I think you'll be doing some talking after all." 

 

Stiles swallows down another protest, and just lets it happen. 

 

He finds out about a minute later what 'betas' are when two of Derek's lackeys tie him to a pillar, then stand around whispering and snickering about something. One of them in particular seems to find something super hilarious about Stiles and his entire existence, while the other is much more focused on his bag. Which might just be magically closed again and not opening no matter how hard they pull on it.

 

Suck on that, were-assholes. 

 

It feels good, that sliver of vindictive bitterness burning away in his gut. Stiles holds on to it even as Derek leaves, taking one of his men with him. Even as the sky grows darker, and the ropes start to itch. It doesn’t really change the fact that the whole thing feels a little anticlimactic, though. Not that he can find it in him to actually complain. Because, as boring as being tied to a cold, stone pillar is, Stiles is actually super worn out. It's been a long day of dead bodies, kicked faces, abused hands, running around, rubber-ducky throwing—Jesus, he's never going to live that down—and now freezing his butt off on the floor of some crappy, torn up building. Stiles is sore, low-key furious, high-key terrified, and just plain tired. 

 

"You're a weirdo," his curly-haired guard says, flashing his stupid yellow eyes. 

 

Yeah, no. Too tired for that crap.

 

Ignoring the curly-haired whatever, Stiles lets himself slump down as far as he can with the ropes around his torso, and closes his eyes. Sleep is good, and maybe if he sleeps long enough, someone else will come along and take care of the problem for him. 

 

"... You're really weird." 

 

Stiles exerts just enough energy to flip the guy off before drifting off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Not that I'm against violence or anything,” Erica snorts from somewhere behind Boyd. "But that kid's face looks kinda bad, Derek."

 

"There's something off about him," Derek argues. His eyes loosing focus as he listens in on the two heartbeats coming from inside the station. One of them—the less familiar one—is already slowing down, like its owner is... falling asleep. Which is just strange, and _annoying_. Who the hell falls asleep in a situation like this? Why does he smell like almost nothing but also…

 

Almost familiar. 

 

"Yeah, but haven't you heard?" Erica purrs, distracting him from his thoughts, "You catch more flies with honey." 

 

Derek picks up on the bad idea before it even passes her lips, and snaps his head around, "No." 

 

"You don't even know what I was thinking.” 

 

"No, Erica, you aren't going to try to seduce it out of him," Derek clarifies. "We have no idea what he even is yet."

 

"No clues from the phone call?" Boyd asks. 

  
"It was... just more confusing," he admits, thinking back in the call. It wasn't their usual brand of army-trained Hunter nonsense, or any distant relatives of the Argent family. That's especially obvious, since they don't like using anything supernatural for their work. It left him with more questions than answers. "All I know for sure is that he's an agent of some kind, and in some sort of trouble for not 'bringing me in.'" 

 

"Agent Rosco, right?" Derek nods, but Boyd just shakes his head and looks down at his phone. "I tried looking him up, got Lydia on it and everything but..." 

 

She's not Danny, Derek thinks with a twist of pain in his chest. Danny Māhealani had joined their pack years ago back when Derek had first become alpha and started biting those he thought might need a little saving. But, where Jackson was over-eager to gain the ‘gift’, Danny never wanted the bite. Somehow, he still fell into place in the pack almost easier than his betas did, and remained long after Jackson left. Long enough to be killed.

 

“She never really got into hacking like Danny did,” Boyd murmurs at his phone, typing out something else. “She says we should snap a picture of him and she’ll try to sneak into the national database to run it.” 

 

“Okay, I’m just going to say it. We’re being pulled too many ways at once,” Erica points out, crossing her arms in front of her. “We’ve got that deputy wandering around with dead bodies, we’ve got those little hybrid bastards popping up left and right, we don’t even know if Lydia is actually okay, and you nearly died today. We can’t afford to be babysitting this kid right now. Plus, I think you forgot the fact that he’s here to kill you. I think we should just leave him for the Dread Doctors or their pets, and be done with it.”

 

Derek growls at her tone, but Erica holds his gaze with a stubborn jut of her jaw. She’s not trying to challenge his authority, he knows, but he doesn’t like it when she gets like this. There’s vicious, and then there’s just cruel. “We are not giving him to the Dread Doctors, that’s—“

 

“Probably more problematic than what we’re dealing with now,” Boyd interrupts. “We have no idea what he is. I don’t wanna’ know what they could make him into.”

 

Derek holds back a shudder, and turns back to listen in to the two heartbeats inside. Whatever he is, Agent Rosco doesn't deserve to be mutated and forced to do the Doctor’s bidding. He didn’t exactly ooze evil, if Derek was being honest, and even after hurting him he seemed more concerned about getting away than doing his job and killing him. 

 A thought strikes him, unexpected and strange. 

 

“He never said he wanted to kill me,” he says, “Just that I was ‘supposed to be dead’.”

 

“You said the voice on the phone—“

“They said something about my soul." 

 

"So... he just wants to... steal your soul?" Erica pulls on a strand of hair and shakes her head. "Nope, I still don't get it. Are there creatures that steal your soul?" 

 

"Vampires?" Boyd suggests, shrugging at the glare Derek sends him. "I don't know, Lydia's the one the ask. She knows that bestiary back to front." 

 

Sighing, Derek runs a hand down his face, ignoring the slight burn where his skin was still closing up over wounds. "Vampire doesn't feel right, but ask her what she thinks." 

 

Erica appears at his shoulder, looking tired. It's been a hard couple of months, and they were not prepared for something like the Dread Doctors. At least that Theo kid had stopped trying to get into his pack. Like any of them would trust some random teen claiming he went to elementary school with his betas, especially when all three of them claimed to have never noticed him. They've been on high alert for whatever his little addition to their current mess is going to be. 

 

Derek lets some of his tension go, and hates how hard it is. "We'll figure this out." 

 

"I hope so," Erica replies, her eyes fixated on the subway station. "Because I like your soul where it is."

 

Derek flashes a weak smile, and lies, "So do I." 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles blinks awake when half of him is set on fire. Ok, so not fire, maybe just the sun creeping in through the broken windows and warming him up. It's actually pretty nice after a night of freezing to death and probably permanently damaging his spinal cord. Humming with mild pleasure, Stiles makes an attempt at sitting up straight and categorizing his current situation. 

 

He's still tied up, that's a given. His robes are actually pretty comfortable and in good condition, even if his jeans have fallen halfway off his ass underneath them. Wait, is that blood on his shoes? Oh that's just fan-fucking-fantastic. He loves these shoes, they're limited addition 2019 Chuck Allstars with a little pocket and everything. Fucking f—okay, no, he's categorizing. Categorizing his situation. 

 

Stiles squints at the light, trying to judge the time. Morningish? Maybe?  

 

He's not really good with time, seeing as it's sort of always every time everywhere for the Retrievers. Hell, he's seen people leave clean shaven for an Amber Event then return massive six-year-long beard and a bad case of fleas before he can blink. (Wars tend to do that.) And while many of them still use general time-related terminology, most of the Retrievers let it fade the longer they do their work. Which is probably why Stiles and his friends, Heather and Danny, are mocked about being 'new' to the job whenever they're around the old pros. Especially when things like birthdays still haven't lost their charm, even if they've long since forgotten which day in their actual lifetime it was. 

So, maybe he doesn't know exactly when it is, but Stiles is pretty sure it's a new day in Bacon wherever. (He should check his work ticket again.) Which... means he's probably already too late to log Derek Hale's soul before he, himself, is Retrieved. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, Stiles was kind of hoping someone would appear and magically take this entire mess off of his hands. In fact, Stiles had only fallen asleep after a few good rounds of lying to himself about it.

 

_Someone will save your ass._

_Someone's going to come._

_Someone else will deal with it._

_You're not about to die for some werewolf loser who doesn't know when to kick the bucket._

 

Yeah, so that didn't happen. The sun is already shining, birds are chirping, his stomach is growling, and no one has shown up to save the day. 

 

Awesome.

 

There's a quiet snuffle from the broken desk a few feet away from him, and Stiles almost laughs when he sees the curly haired dude. He’s fast asleep—sitting up—sort of listing to the right, actually. His eyes are definitely closed and the rest of his face is tucked into a soft, blue scarf. It would be cute, if Stiles didn't sort of hate him for holding him captive and calling him weird. It's not that he doesn't know he's weird, but it's annoying to be called weird for the wrong reasons. Like being a Retriever? That's not weird. Sneaking into certain baseball games and stealing hot dogs when he's supposed to be working? That's probably a little weird.  

The guy snuffles into his scarf once again, and leans a little further over. Stiles is tempted—very tempted—to pull a little trick on him with some good old fashion Death Magic, but he still doesn't have his damn bag and he's, like, 80% sure the whole Pinion thing throws his abilities out of whack anyway. He's practically mortal right now, with the possible bodily harm and the death sentence hanging over his head. Hell, the Battle of the Bulge was less stressful than this. 

 

Grumbling under his breath, Stiles pushes himself up from his slump, and looks around for his bag. 

 

 

"Issac!" 

 

Stiles flinches at the voice, but not half as much as Curly Boy does. He'd been leaning just a little too far, and the shout sent him toppling off the desk with an embarrassingly loud squeak. Stiles doesn't hold back the bark of laughter that escapes him, even as the wolf scowls and flashes his eyes at him. 

 

"I see he's awake," Derek mutter when he appears next to the pillar across from Stiles. There's a hint of fondness in his voice that Stiles doesn't expect, not after all that growling and torture tactics. It doesn't do much to sooth—Issac?—Issac's embarrassment, if the pink cheeks are anything to go by, but the boy still moves towards him as if compelled. Derek raises a hand, and for a terrifying second Stiles thinks he's going to hit him for falling asleep on the job. He almost blurts out something to stop him, because that's just unfair and abusive, but Derek simply runs a hand down the back of the guy's neck and gives him a friendly shove to send him on his way. 

 

Which is... okay. Better than hitting him, but also confusing and weirdly intimate. Like, who does that to their boyfriend in front of their friendly lil' kidnap victim? 

 

Not that Stiles is feeling very friendly, especially not when those eyebrows come back down as soon as Derek meets his eye. 

 

"Well good morning to you too, Sunshine," he scowls back. 

 

"Feel like talking?" 

 

"Me? Talk?" Stiles leans his head back, feeling a smirk coming on. "Sure thing, buddy. What do you want to talk about? I know all sorts of things, like the entire history of circumcision, or how our noses aren't actually designed for our standing upright."  

 

Stiles crosses one leg over the other, and begins, "Firstly, we have to consider our genetic history. How our bodies were built each generation, versus how we used them. Considering our hunched over posture back in the good old days, it makes sense for our nasal cavities to—"

 

"Stop," Derek rasps, "just stop. What the... what are you even _talking_ about?" 

 

Derek's looking a little alarmed, and maybe glad he didn't start with the circumcision. He's lucky Stiles is talking at all. He wouldn't say anything at all, but he also knows that this guy likes to hurt you when you don't do what he wants. Maybe sarcasm isn't the best way to go, but Stiles can talk circles around anyone. Maybe it'll be enough to hold him off. 

 

"You said talk. I'm talking."

 

"Talk about what you're doing here."

 

"I'm just sitting, my dude." 

 

Derek wrinkles his nose. "I'm not your _dude_." 

 

"No," Stiles agrees, "you're really _not_." 

 

The man before him seems to deflate before his very eyes, and sort of collapse-sits on the desk with a loud thump. He may be cleaned up and freshly shaved, but he's still oozing weariness like some of the older Retrievers do. 

 

There's a moment for every Retriever, somewhere far, far down the line, where the repetition and the endless days, nights, years, months— endless _everything_ finally gets to them. That's when they set their robes aside, and head up to the Big Office. Sometimes it's sooner rather than later; sometimes a Retriever just doesn't want to do it anymore. Sometimes the big bosses pick a soul that never wanted a forever. It's not often, but it does happen. 

 

Right now, Derek-Not-Dead-Hale is exhibiting the same sort of exhaustion as a Retriever on their last day. Suicidal, that's what it is. Done. Dead. 

 

Stiles finds himself, for some unbearable reason, really hating it on him. "Stop that."

 

Derek jerks his head up. "What?" 

 

"Stop moping around, you're alive, aren't you?"

 

"Against all odds."

 

"Oh buddy," Stiles sighs, "if you only knew." 

 

Derek pushes himself off the desk, jabbing a finger at Stiles. "See? _That_ —that's the kind of thing you need to explain. Why? Why 'if I only knew'? What does that even mean?!" 

 

"Whuh? I can't just _tell_ you!" 

 

"Why not?!"

 

"It's not allowed!" 

 

"Says who?" Derek snaps.

 

Stiles sputters, "Says—says my boss!" 

 

" _Who_ is your boss?" 

 

Stiles opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Opens. Shuts. Yeah, he doesn't actually have an answer for that one. He's never met his boss. Most Retrievers have never met 'The Boss', and most likely never will. Oh, there's plenty of speculation about who it might be, mostly based on whatever religion you were steeped in during your lifetime. Stiles likes to argue that it's a hamster sometimes, just to make their lunch break more interesting. 

Whoever it is, they set the rules and choose the new recruits. That's about it. 

Stiles admits, "I don't actually know." 

Derek moves closer, his eyes flicking to Stiles' chest. "Didn't you just speak to them?" 

"Nah, that's just the answering service. It's as much a boss as the Scotts." 

Blinking slowly, Derek crouches down in front of him, and frowns. "You're not all there in the head, are you?" 

"Well that's rude." 

"So are you."

"I'm being more polite than you deserve, buddy. You should consider yourself blessed that i'm even speaking at all." Stiles juts his jaw out, and promptly stops talking. Derek stares. Stiles stares back. Someone shuffles around outside. 

"Is that it?" Derek asks. 

Stiles stares. 

"I could hurt you again." 

Stiles narrows his eyes. 

Shifting, like the thought somehow makes him uncomfortable (hah!), Derek reaches behind him and pulls out the rubber ducky from his back pocket. "What does this do?" 

Stiles grits his teeth, and _stares_. 

"Why did you throw it at me?" Derek continues, looking at the ducky as he turns it over in his hands. Frowning, he gives it a little squeeze. A puff of powder comes spraying out at his face, making him jerk backwards with a grunt of surprise.

 It _would_ be the perfect moment to escape, if Stiles was untied and not completely pins-and-needles legs. For now, he will have to settle with snickering at the werewolf's snuffing and snorting. Poor wolfy got fairy dust up his nosey. 

Unfortunately, his amusement is cut short by a scary blonde woman roaring, "What did you do to him!?" And stomping over to Derek to help him up. 

"It's not wolfsbane," Derek replies, closing his watering eyes and rubbing at them. "Something— _huff_ —something else." 

"How _dare_ you," she snarls at Stiles, flexing her clawed fingers as she turns to approach him. "What is it?!" 

"It's nothing—!" Stiles breaks off with a pained wheeze. There's a fist in his gut, making him nauseous and breathless at the same time. He tries, helplessly, to explain that it's harmless, but he can't seem to get the words or the air. 

"Erica," Comes Derek's voice. "Don't." 

"He did something to you!" Another fist hits his ribs, making them creak in warning. The next one will break them, he knows this. He remembers this. 

Who was punching him in his human lifetime? 

"—fine. So stop." 

Stiles is losing the thread here. Or maybe he did the second he arrived in this stupid location. Lifting his head, Stiles blinks away tears of pain to find two furious-looking werewolves glaring at him. Derek snorts out some more dust, but otherwise seems unaffected. Which Stiles would have told them about, of they'd given him the chance. 

"T-this... isn't working out," he wheezes, dropping his gaze to his lap. "I talk... you're not happy. I d-don't talk, you're not... happy." 

"What is this powder?" Derek demands. 

"S'fairy dust." 

"What does it do?" 

Stiles winces as his breath catches right at the ache in his ribs. The ropes... the ropes need to loosen, they feel like they're strangling the air right out of him. Again, he's hit with a strange sense of familiarity. What is _wrong_ with this place? 

A shadow looms over him, and Stiles knows it's Derek. "What. Does. It. Do?" 

"... Makes you see... good things," he rasps, struggling to get a full breath of air. "Can't—I can't..." 

Derek doesn't answer him, but Stiles can feel the weight of his gaze on the top of his head. Which, whatever. He's starting to get black fuzzies on the edge of his vision and the pain is making him antsy.

Why is this so familiar? Struggling to breathe. A well of fear and panic bubbling up in his chest in place of air. The world going dark. Why would he _know_ this feeling? 

Stiles feels his head lull back as someone pushes his chin up. There's a face in front of him. Confused, angry, sad. A lot of sad.

"Then why are you glowing?" The face asks, just before Stiles lets the familiar feeling suck him into the dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Stiles' hand is stepped on, he's punched twice, and he has a panic attack. [Otherwise okay]


	3. In Constant Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to try something different.

 

 

Derek knows that he has lost more than most. It’s not an exaggeration or a play for sympathy, simply a fact he faces every day. He has lost, and lost, and  _lost_. 

 

Yet, somehow, he’s still here. Maybe not whole, maybe not the same person he once was, but he’s here and here to stay. He wonders, sometimes, if it would have been different if he’d never come back to Beacon Hills. It’s been too much of a fight, and not enough living. And really, when has he ever had the _time_ to have a life? Somewhere away from the hunters constantly harassing him, or sometime between this enemy-of-the-week and the next? At any point after Laura died? Before the police station was bombed? 

 

When has Derek ever been allowed a breath, never mind having the time to sit down and read a book simply for the pleasure of it? 

 

Never, that’s when.

 

There’s always something to research before it kills the pack, or another villain showing up before the dust settles from their last battle. All he has left are his three betas and a fucked up town full of trauma victims. Because no one has made it out of Beacon Hills without suffering. No one. 

 

“Is he still glowing?” 

 

Derek shakes his head at Erica, and pulls his crossed arms tighter against his chest. He’s well aware he’s broadcasting his discomfort, but his betas will sense it, no matter what his posture is doing. It’s just another event in a long list of manipulation and abuse, but Derek never adjusts well to things messing with his head. The glow had been alarming, at first, but when nothing else seemed to happen and their rubber ducky-throwing enemy panicked himself into unconsciousness, the whole thing felt rather anticlimactic. Whatever the dust did, it’s already worn off. He’s fine. He’s just fine. 

 

At least Derek didn’t go on a possessed killing spree like that kid did a few years ago. What a horror show that had been, especially after they had to call Chris back into town to put him down. The sheriff was never quite the same after that, and neither was the pack. 

 

“I know you think I shouldn’t have punched him,” Erica is saying, “but he _did_  do something to you.” 

 

Derek looks at the slumped over figure tied to the pillar, and tries to visualize the evil mastermind Erica is convinced he is. He doesn’t see it. 

 

“I don’t think that was his intention,” he replies. 

 

“He threw it at you.”

 

“He reached in that bag of his and threw the first thing he got his hands on.” Derek snorts. “It didn’t even release the dust until I poked at it.” 

 

“Still,” Erica whines, as stubborn as ever. 

 

Derek likes to think he has a handle on her more petulant moods, but this time he can see she’s not going to give in easily. Erica has lost, too. He can see how it’s warped her, made her sharper, less trusting. The same perpetual unhappy they all seem to be. It’s something he should be working to improve, as their alpha, but again with that lack of time. 

 

“I think maybe we’re going about this all wrong,” Boyd calls out as he appears from one of the side doors. He steps around a pile of rubble, and stops beside the mysterious, unconscious agent.

 

“More pressure?” Erica suggests, her grin sharp and manic. 

 

“Hasn’t worked so far,” Boyd points out. 

 

“That’s why I said ‘more’.” 

 

Boyd meets Derek’s gaze, and he juts his head towards the door. 

 

_Should I take her home?_

 

Derek nods. Erica protests Boyd’s gentle shoving as he herds her out the door. At least she listens to _someone_ around here, even if it isn’t her alpha. He knows she wants blood for blood, but he’s not so sure this guy owes them anything. Sure, he said he was here for Derek—sent to ‘log his soul’, whatever that means—but Derek is pretty sure he can’t be blamed for the Dread Doctors or any of their past shit-fests. To top it all off, he's sensed no malice from him. Nothing but fear, confusion, and a little anger at his treatment. 

 

Derek sighs, and runs a hand though his hair. The guy hasn’t moved since the fairy dust incident, the only proof of life being the slow drag of air in and out of his unconscious body. He’d had something that looked like a panic attack after Erica punched him. Maybe Boyd was right. Maybe they were going about this all wrong. 

 

Scowling, Derek crosses over to the pillar and slices through the rope to free the man. He catches him before he sags to the floor, and hefts him up over one shoulder. He weights next to nothing, another reminder that he’s not quite the ultra-villain they’ve made him out to be. At the worst, an Argent spy, or maybe some sort of witch. Definitely not any creature Derek has ever sensed. He almost has no scent at all, which is confusing in itself.   

 

The man mumbles some nonsense against Derek’s shoulder and smacks his lips. It’s almost child-like, innocent.

 

Handle this a different way. Right. Derek can do that. 

 

Probably. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stiles remembers his first retrieval—it’s hard to forget seeing that much death your first time out—but he doesn’t remember his own death. He knows some Retrievers do, where some never even bother to try to dredge it up again. They’re dead and done. The end. 

 

Stiles has to admit, though, he’s curious. He’s been curious for his entire career as a Retriever. There’s only so many weirdo deaths one can see without wondering if you’re one of them. Did he burn? Was it a stabbing by fork? Stiletto to the cranium? Falling anvil?

 

Maybe it was a bit morbid to imagine your own death, but with your only job being, well, gathering dead people, it’s one of your average water cooler conversations. 

 

Still, Stiles has never been even remotely close to remembering how he died. Until now. 

 

He wakes up feeling like he’s floating. In the back of his mind, he knows something is wrong. The absence of pain isn’t something new, but the absence of pretty much everything else is a little different. He literally feels like he’s on the cloud. Which is, you know, nice and all, but Stiles would like to come back down to earth soon. 

 

Something twinges in his chest. 

 

No, ok, maybe not. Maybe the cloud is fine. Pain is just a memory. Pain is _not_ something Stiles misses. 

 

Stiles thinks he hears someone speak, but the words don’t make a lot of sense. 

 

“—to sit up?” 

 

_No_ , he thinks, _I don’t want to sit up._

 

Some of that must have made its way out of his mouth, because the voice doesn’t ask again. Instead, something shoves under his back and pulls him upright against his will. 

 

“Nnghh,” he says. 

 

“I want to get some water in you,” the voice says back. 

 

“I don’t... need.” 

 

“You’re already dehydrated.” 

 

Stiles tries to frown. “Sounds fake.” 

 

Something cold brushes against his cracked lips, and ok, maybe he is a little thirsty. He’s never thirsty. Retrievers eat and drink whenever they get the hankering for it. They’re not technically alive, they don’t _need_ sustenance. 

 

Stiles slurps at the cold water and wonders, vaguely, if maybe he imagined the entire Retriever thing. It could have been one super long dream, couldn’t it? Maybe he’s just woken up from a coma and his dad is... his dad... 

 

Stiles snaps his eyes open, and for one second he sees his dad’s face. He _remembers_ his dad’s face. 

 

Then it’s just Derek, and everything crashes back to earth again. 

 

“You f-fucker,” Stiles hisses, wishing he had the strength to punch the guy in the nose. So what if he’s a magical-healing-werewolf, it’d be worth it. 

 

“Ah, I see you’ve remembered where you are,” Derek says, sounding amused. 

 

“You’re so lucky i’m not an upper level.” 

 

“An upper level _what_?” 

 

Stiles licks his lips, and pretends to find the glass of water Derek’s holding up for him super fascinating. Derek lets out a long-suffering sigh—which, shut up, it’s been a _day_ —and moves the glass to the side table. Scowling, Stiles moves his gaze from the cup to look around their surroundings. It’s not the run-down station anymore, thankfully. It’s more of a run-down factory with a hint of homey. He’s actually in a bed, though, so that’s something. There’s even some nice, soft sheets tucked in around him. Which is nice, a lot nicer than being tied to a pillar all night long. 

 

“So, I guess i’m no longer public enemy number one, huh?” 

 

“We still don’t trust you,” Derek warns, his eyes narrowing at Stiles like he might make some evil mastermind move any second now. “But so far you’ve been mostly harmless..” 

 

“So, what?” Stiles asks, wrinkling his nose. “I’m your ‘mostly harmless’ captive now? What happened to being the Wicked Witch of the West?” 

 

Derek shrugs, and stands up from his crouch beside the bed. He’s wearing another one of those soft, long-sleeve shirts and dark jeans, sans the leather jacket. He looks a lot more relaxed and less stick-up-the-ass without the jacket. Or maybe it’s just his affect, the way his expression seems to soften into something more confused than furious. Stiles swallows nervously, and looks down at his hands as he curls his fingers into the blanket. 

 

“It won’t matter if you keep me here, someone else will come for you eventually.” 

 

“What do you mean?” Derek asks. 

 

Stiles glances up to find the constipated look back on his face. He misses the soft-confusion already. “I mean that holding me captive won’t make you any safer.” 

 

Derek snorts, “I never once thought that.” 

 

“Then why keep me here?” 

 

“Who says we’re going to keep you for very long?” 

 

It’s Stiles’ turn to scoff, now. “You’re not going to get anything out of me, so I don’t see what other options you have. Let me go, I try to intervene and maybe give the ol’ system a run around, or keep me here and die. Your choice.” 

 

Derek frowns at him, his brows pinching together in a way that threatens Stiles’ patience. He can feel the questions coming, questions he’s absolutely forbidden to answer. 

 

Then again... if Derek continues to hold him here, he’s as good as dead, anyway. You don’t get second chances for a failure this massive. You’re out of the job, kicked to the curb. Dead. For realzies. 

 

Stiles opens his mouth, then shuts it again. 

 

Okay, there’s also a chance he could get away. Getting back to headquarters and changing the information for Derek Hale would be hard, but not impossible. The Scotts might even be willing to help him once he pleads his case. The only problem is, he can exactly go spilling his secrets to someone he’s potentially going to give a second life to. There are some things the living just aren’t meant to know, and a gigantic realm of un-dead beings that gather souls based on a punch-card system is probably on the top of the list. 

 

The thing is, that chance is super slim. Derek and his pack haven’t exactly been the most friendly, or trustworthy, or stupid. Three things Stiles could use to escape, and he’s landed in an apparent war-zone with hardened werewolves. He’s probably—definitely—fucked. 

 

Stiles keeps his mouth closed this time, and watches the questions bubble up behind Derek’s kaleidoscope-of-colors eyes. 

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

“Because I can’t just keep calling you ‘guy’,” Derek explains, sounding a bit peeved. 

 

“… It’s Stiles,” he says, because what’s the harm?

 

Derek blinks, and for a second Stiles thinks he sees recognition there, but it passes.

 

“You keep saying that you ‘can’t’ tell me things about what you are,” he begins again, going slowly. “Do you mean you physically can’t speak about it due to some... spell or something, or that you’re afraid of the punishment for talking about it?” 

 

“Um... I guess the second option?” Stiles replies, a little surprised at his change of tactics. “If you don’t kill me, they will.” 

 

Derek looks insulted. “We aren’t going to kill you.” 

 

Stiles raises a wholly unimpressed eyebrow. “You stepped on my hand.” 

 

“I thought you were another little shit sent by the Doctors.” 

 

“I have no idea what that means, but you also bruised my ribs.” 

 

Derek winces a little, brining a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “Erica, ah, gets a little...”

 

“Scary angry?” 

 

“She’s been through a lot,” Derek explains, not meeting Stiles’ eye. “We all have.”

 

“So have I,” Stiles says. Except... no he hasn’t, has he? 

 

He got used to Retrieving pretty quickly. Hell, his trainer said he was a natural; took to the work like a duck to water. After his third Retrieval, he barely even batted an eye at death or blood or chopped off limbs. So why does he have a memory of being horrified by a disembodied arm? Why does he remember smiling while he was screaming inside? 

 

Stiles looks down at where he’s clawing at the blanket, and tries to steady himself. He’s not fast enough, because a second later Derek is in front of him looking all soft and confused again. No, not confused, concerned. 

 

“You’re really frightened of your boss,” he says, his voice oddly quiet. 

 

“Yes,” Stiles lies, keeping his eyes focused on his fingers. This is a familiar feeling, as well. He flexes them into the dark blue blanket, and lets out a breath. “This really wasn’t supposed to happen, all of this.” 

 

Derek nods like he gets it, and reaches a hand out to grab Stiles’ wrist. Instead of the bruising grip of before, his hand is gentle. The black lines are back, and the pain and overwhelming fear that _something_ is wrong with him starts to fade.

 

“What... what is that again?” He asks, his words starting to slur. He’s feeling sleepy and cloudy again, it’s kinda nice. 

 

“I’m taking some of your pain.”

 

“Will you... give it back?” 

 

Derek’s face is all blurry and soft. It’s almost nice. 

 

“No,” he says just as Stiles drifts off to sleep. “No more pain.” 

 

* * *

 

Stiles dreams. 

 

At least, he thinks he’s dreaming. It’s a little confusing. 

 

 

He’s standing in a room filled with long, black tables and lots of metal tubes. He’s been here before, but _he_ hasn’t. There’s a key in his hand, clutched firmly between two fingers that shake and quiver. He wants to go home, to curl up under his covers and disappear. _He_ wants to get into the cabinet, where the dangerous chemicals are. Not the silly things Lydia played with all that time ago. He wants to make a statement, a signal as bright and beautiful as the beacon that drew him out from his cage. That brilliant little spark, nestled away in the darkened heart of a teenage boy. Oh, how he wants to eat that heart and spark up whole. 

 

And he will. 

 

He knows just what to do to make this division fail. He into them. Him. 

 

Stiles’ face splits into a wolfish smile as he slides the key into the lock, and opens the door. 

 

Oh yes, there would be only him in the end. 

 

 

* * *

 

Derek doesn’t know what to make of his new guest. At first, Stiles—if that’s his real name—sleeps like a starfish; all long limbs and content bonelessness. But as the night goes on, Derek watches the body in his bed shift and curl inward as though in pain. And there are whimpers, too. Soft, weak sounds of protest. It makes him wonder about the boy’s boss, it makes him wonder if maybe this is the path Boyd showed insight to. If Derek could offer Stiles safety—and follow through enough to actually _keep_ him safe—perhaps they could gain more knowledge of his assignment. There is no other way, really. Stiles refused to answer any questions, even under duress, and was too carefully obnoxious to let slip anything other than vague hints. 

 

Derek frowns at the figure in his bed, and rubs a hand over his mouth. The whimpering had stopped, whatever dream that had been scaring him fading to something more manageable. Derek wishes it was that easy for himself. His dreams never gave him peace, and he’s not sure he ever wants them to. There were so many mistakes, so many people he could have saved if he had just… if he had done more. Had done _better_. 

At least Chris no longer seemed to blame him, not even for his sister’s well-deserved death. Derek and the Argents had gone through enough by the time the bombing came long, enough so that they sat there in near-camaraderie before Chris had to go shoot a teenager boy in the head. 

 

At least Derek hadn’t been there for that. 

 

“Mmno…”

 

He looks up at the sound, and stands when he realizes the nightmares must have come back with a vengeance. Leaning over him, Derek reaches out and gives Stiles’ shoulder a small shake. The body under him jerks and twitches away from his touch, another soft whimper of protest escaping Stiles. 

 

“No… dad.”

 

“Stiles?” Derek prods, trying to wake him again. 

 

The boy jerks awake, and backs away from him with a startled whine. Derek immediately steps back, both hands up in surrender even as Stiles smacks into the wall behind him with a loud thunk. 

 

“Easy there, it’s just me,” Derek murmurs, trying to be soothing. By the look of fear on Stiles’ face, he figures it’s not working. 

 

“My dad,” Stiles rasps, fingers curling into the pillows around him. “I remember my dad.”

 

Frowning, Derek replies, “Is that… bad?”

 

“I haven’t…” Stiles shakes his head. "It’s been a long time. I d-didn’t remember what he looked like.” 

 

“Is it not a good thing to remember?” Derek asks, taking a step towards him. Stiles tries to shrink away, even though he has no where else to go. 

 

“I think—“ Stiles sputters and chokes on his words, his eyes flitting away from Derek’s gaze. “I think I remember killing him."


	5. Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek learns what it is to be marked for death, and Stiles learns that maybe his past life isn’t so distant after all. 

 

 

 

 There’s a condition some of the Retrievers get in the early days of their work that can end their new-found second lives sooner rather than later. It’s something a little like survivor’s guilt—multiplied by a thousand. Which, honestly, is not all that surprising considering their job is basically watching people die over, and over again. Most Retrievers move past it after a while. Get used to the guilt. Compartmentalize. Others... well, they’re the ones who tend to go up to the big boss and never come back.  

 

Stiles never really understood why it got so bad for some Retrievers. Sure, he felt pretty shitty when he realized he’d be listening to people beg, bargain, and plead for their lives for an eternity. But he also knew that there was no changing death. It came for everyone, and what’s beyond that is a mystery. Hell, maybe it’s better to move on. Better than being hijacked into soul-collecting until his tired ass soul gave up and he wandered into the boss’ office asking for death. Maybe there’s golden gates and a chorus of angels waiting, who knows. All Stiles knows is that once the soul is collected, they get more peaceful. They stop begging to be left alive, and seem to grow content. Maybe even a little happy. 

It’s weird, but it kind of stopped the guilt from eating him alive while he retrieved souls.

It’s a little different when you’re 99% sure you murdered your dad back in your old life. The guilt _drowns_ him, filling up his chest with a burning pain. How could he have done that? His father was everything, he remembers that much. He was all he had left in that bleak little world, the only person who _mattered_.

“...can’t be,” he murmurs, bringing his hands up and clawing at his face. 

It can’t be. 

Someone begins to pull his hands away from his face. Someone is talking to him. “What are you talking about, Stiles? Stiles, stop.”  

Stiles tries to focus back on Derek-I-Don’t-Die-Hale, and can’t. He can’t look the guy in the eye. He can’t stop seeing his father’s back as he walks into the building seconds before it explodes. 

“Stiles... hey,” Derek’s saying, hands gripping his arms and giving him a small shake. “What happened?” 

Stiles licks his lips, trying to get the taste of bile off his tongue. He kind of wants to hurl. He can’t stop the memory from playing on repeat. It’s definitely his dad walking into the building. He knows his dad, knows his uniform, his walk. But why was Stiles hiding? Why was he watching him from across the street? Why did it seem like he couldn’t move? 

“Stiles!” 

Stiles blinks and there’s Derek again, staring down at him in confusion and maybe concern. Stiles tries to offer him a smile, but feels it come out as a grimace instead. 

 

“I don’t know...” he replies weakly, “I’ve never had any real memories from my life before.” 

“You don’t remember... your life?” Derek asks, his fingers curling tighter around Stiles’ forearms.  

Stiles shakes his head. “I had flashes of stuff—pointless stuff like homework or-or my reflection in a mirror sometimes. Never anything like this.” 

Derek blinks at him. “You had _homework_?” 

“That’s what you’re focusing on, really?” 

“I thought you were something a little older,” Derek admits, a hint of sheepishness creeping into his voice. “You said you were older than me.”

“Technically, I am. But time isn’t exactly linear, and i’m talking about my actual lifetime, anyway.” 

“Your... lifetime.” 

“When I was _alive_?” Stiles explains, exasperated. 

 “You aren’t alive.” Derek states more than asks, his nostrils flaring as he starts sniffing at Stiles yet again. He doesn’t seem to find anything new to Stiles’ scent, and scowls. “You don’t smell dead.” 

“That’s because i’m not dead.” 

Derek’s brows pull together as he lets go and leans back with a glare. Which is whatever. It’s not like Stiles is _trying_ to be confusing, he’s just not allowed to explain this stuff to anyone. In fact, he’s probably not allowed to say most of what he’s already said. He’s probably already headed for some horrible reprimand. There are things worse than dying, and Stiles isn’t ready for that other type of eternity. 

Derek’s looking a bit constipated, though, and Stiles can see everything starting to fall into place in his head. He’s got that look in his eye, like something just started to make sense. 

“The voice on the phone called you Agent Rosco,” Derek says, slowly. 

Stiles shrugs a little, and glances down at his own hands. He doesn’t really want to keep having the same augment over and over again. But, hey, maybe it’s the distraction he needs to get away from the memory that’s haunting him. 

“So, you’ve had a life that ended, but you aren’t dead,” Derek continues while Stiles starts to count his fingers. He doesn’t know why he does it, it just feels right. “And you said something about not being able to die before, I remember that. But you get hurt, apparently.” 

“I just wouldn’t die from it. Like, you could probably chop off my head and I’d be fine.” Stiles glances up and makes a face. “Not that that was an invitation, it would still really hurt. Please don’t.”

Derek’s face does something funny, almost like he’s insulted that Stiles would suggest that and _hello_ , it’s not like they’ve been the most hospitable werewolves in the world. They’ve done more harm than good, which, honestly, isn’t all that surprising considering how shitty the world can be to werewolves. And, hey, he _is_ supposed to be collecting this guy’s eternal soul, after all. Only, you know, it’s still firmly attached to his body. 

Actually... how, exactly, did management expect him to collect the soul, anyway? Didn’t they realize it hasn’t left Derek’s body yet? Shouldn’t they know if it’s become a Wraith by now? Shouldn’t some red light be flashing on someone’s desk? 

_Alert! Alert! Someone didn’t die when they were supposed to!_

Stiles still has this small flicker of hope that maybe someone else made the mistake, here. Maybe he won’t be fired and end up dead-dead. Maybe he can go back to lunch breaks with Heather and Danny and everything will go back to normal. Well, as normal as it can be as a Retriever. 

“Are you going to take my soul?” Derek asks out of nowhere, startling Stiles out of his thoughts. 

“Uh, no?” He responds warily. “I don’t think I can anymore.” 

“What does that mean?” 

Stiles shifts nervously. “I mean, it’s not something i’m qualified to do… anymore. Maybe when you were dying, yeah, but now—now I don’t know. I don’t know what they’re going to do.” 

Never mind the whole Amber Event thing back at the gate. Stiles still doesn’t know what happened there, and honestly isn’t sure he _wants_ to know. That’s a lot of Wraiths to release upon the world. That’s... not good. 

“They’re sending someone else, then?” Derek asks quietly. 

Stiles shrugs again. “I have no idea. This isn’t exactly something I’ve experienced before. I don’t know if this has _ever_ happened before.” 

“I’ve almost died more than a few times,” Derek responds, a sad half-smile forming on his lips. “It’s not the first time for me.” 

“But those don’t actually count,” Stiles argues, pulling his knees up to his chest and leaning back against the headboard. “You weren’t marked to die any of those times. They were just, like, near misses. Close calls.” 

“ _Very_ close calls.” 

“But not close enough. You weren’t _meant_ to die any of those times.” 

Derek’s eyes narrow once again. “And how do you know this?” 

Stiles taps his fingers against his knees, and glances away from him. He’s toeing the line already. Then again... he’s already in hot water, even if this bullshit is in no way his fault. Maybe he can just... bend the rules a little? It would make things a lot easier. Hell, maybe he can even get the wolves on his side a little more. That wouldn’t suck.

Stiles licks his lips, and finally meets Derek’s eye. 

“I know this... because I’m death.” 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Of all the things Derek expected Stiles to say, it wasn’t that. Anything, from ‘i’m a hunter’ to ‘i’m a witch’ crossed his mind, but a physical form of death wasn’t one of them. 

 

“What.” 

 

Stiles lets out a huge breath, and plops his head down on his knees. “Can you please use proper annunciation and punctuation when you speak?” 

“What do you mean ‘death’?” Derek tries again, frowning down at him. 

“This is harder than I thought,” he hears, muttered into the fabric of his robes. 

Derek thinks back to all the weird things about the kid that haven’t added up, and still can’t quite get ‘death’ out of it. Collecting his soul? Okay, yeah. Dressing up in dark robes and appearing on top of the Nemeton surrounded by dead bodies? Sure, he can see how that’s a ‘death’ thing to do. Throwing a rubber ducky? Not so much. 

“So... you’re... Death,” Derek tries, feeling doubtful. “And you came for me?” 

Stiles lifts his face from his knees and scowls at him. “No, stop. I can hear you capitalizing the ‘D’. I’m not actually _Death_ , itself. That’s not a—i’m what you guys call a reaper, or whatever. The dude you always picture as a skeleton with a scythe?” 

“You mean _death_?” 

“Okay,” Stiles reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I regret saying that now because it’s apparently _sticking,_ and it’s not exactly accurate. I’m _a_ death. One of _the_ deaths. One of the reapers, except that’s not what we’re called.” 

Derek frowns sharply. “What are you called, then?” 

“Retrievers.” 

Derek thinks back to the bestiary Lydia ‘borrowed’ from Alison and Chris. He’s never heard of any supernatural being called a ‘Retriever’ before. Hell, he wasn’t even aware there were anything like reapers before now. It wasn’t something he had time to think about in all his years of narrowly avoiding death. Maybe he can ask Peter, if Peter is willing to talk to him after they hauled him in to Eichen House. 

“If you’re imagining those goofy looking dogs,” Stiles continues, sounding bored. “I’m going to tell you right now: we’ve heard the comparison enough times to make it excruciatingly annoying and I will not stand idly by while a _werewolf_ makes a dog joke.” 

Derek blinks at Stiles, then scowls. “What exactly are you, then? You lived  a life, died, and now you collect people’s souls? Are you undead?” 

Frowning at him, Stiles starts picking at the frayed bottom of his robes. He seems as confused as Derek feels, which isn’t a promising sign. How do you not know what you are? Derek’s always known what he was, even when there were times he didn’t know _who_ he was.

“I’m not dead, but i’m not alive?” Stiles says, scrunching up his nose. “I don’t really know, seeing as they don’t exactly explain it when they wake you up again.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Stiles sighs, “look, dude—“

“Don’t call me that.” 

“— _pal_ , I can only explain so much. They kind of kidnap your soul and make you work for them, it’s not like you have a choice in the matter.” Stiles takes a deep breath, and continues, “So, even if I have some powers, I’m not exactly the all-knowing or all-powerful, or even an upper level Retriever. I was going to be, but Danny and Heather are unsupportive a-holes who like to mock my dreams and got me drunk right before the exam.”

Derek jerks at the familiar name, and tries to calm the spike in his heartbeat. Danny is a common enough name, it’s just a coincidence.

“Anyway,” Stiles says, slapping his knees with his hands. “You were just one of five on my To-Do list for the day, really. I mean, I picked your name first because I’d never seen so many different causes of death for one person and it was kind of fascinating.” He scowls. “Turns out, it’s still fascinating, just not exactly as fun as I was expecting.” 

Derek tries not to feel uncomfortable about the fact that his death would have been ‘fun’ for a reaper, but can’t help but scowl at the man in front of him. 

“ _Really_?” He asks, annoyed. 

Stiles flails his hands, looking appropriately apologetic. “I’m sorry! But we get pretty blasé about death after a while, and with everyone else getting sent to Pompeii, I didn’t really have anything interesting to bring up at the table. I thought it would be...” his scent grows heavier with guilt. “I don’t know, different.” 

Derek glares. He’s not even going to ask about Pompeii.

“But, hey!” Stiles chirps, waving a hand at him. “It was! You’re a Pinion! And technically an Amber Event. And also still alive, somehow, so that’s good. Right?” 

“A what and what?” Derek snaps, starting to lose his patience. None of this is making any sense, and the worst part is that Stiles isn’t lying about any of it. Not a single blip in his heartbeat. 

Stiles groans and bangs his head back against the headboard. “Oh god, I have no idea how I explain this to you.” 

 

“Try.” 

“You _have_ to be a Pinion because there’s no other way you can just _not die_ when you’re supposed to die, unless someone or something literally changed the direction of time. A Pinion is a fork in the road, it means time branches off from that moment into distinctly different paths. Most of them are mailable with the appropriate Retrievers and staff present, but for the most part they’re just observed. People don’t change time unless time _needs_ to be changed.” Stiles waves his hand at Derek and lets it fall limply in his lap as his eyes widen. “Which... means someone has to have changed your death, somehow.” 

“Some stranger wanted me to live?” Derek snorts, doubtful. That would be a first. 

“No? Yes?” Stiles purses his lips. “Maybe? I didn’t see anyone else there, not even to collect the souls of all those dead people around the stump. Which just doesn’t make sense, they usually send two or three Retrievers to a Pinion to observe the course of time, and there’s always a bunch of us there for multiple deaths in one spot.” 

“The dead people didn’t die at the stump, if that helps. They were picked off one by one all over town. Some of them weeks ago.” 

Stiles blinks at him, and actually cracks a smile. “Oh man, finally some good news. That means they probably _were_ Retrieved. The less Wraiths in the world the better.” 

Derek doesn’t even want to know what Wraiths are. It’s been hell in Beacon Hills as of late, they don’t need anything else lurking around. 

“So, someone saved my life is what you’re saying,” he mutters, furrowing his brow. It doesn’t make any sense, there was no one around except the rogue hunter attacking Derek in the woods, and he wasn’t exactly interested in Derek’s continued existence.  “Who?” 

“That’s a good question,” Stiles replies, “But this isn’t exactly a major time event to be messing with, so what I really want to know is: why?” 

Derek wouldn’t mind finding that out, himself. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Derek’s home isn’t exactly the nicest place in the world. It turns out it is some sort of ex-factory thing turned into these bare, industrial lofts, and Derek Hale can’t really be bothered with filling the place with furniture. Or anything, really. There’s a bed, a kitchen with a cup in it, a bathroom, and a huge ass table covered in books and papers. Other than that, Stiles is pretty sure the place is as empty and miserable as he’s feeling right now. It’s really not helping his mood. 

Neither is Derek, actually. 

After a hurried phone call he took outside on the balcony thing, he visibly sinks into an even darker mood than before. Stiles is, like, 90% sure the guy isn’t going to try to kill him anymore, but he’s also not tempted to push his buttons when the guy has a permanent furrow between his brows. Dude is scary stressed, and has turned into a surly, fourteen year old girl.

Stiles fidgets with his shoe laces as he sits on the bed and watches Derek glare at a book. It’s the same paperback book he’s been glaring at for the past half hour, every so often flipping a page and growling at whatever he reads on it. He doesn’t seem to be reading it chronologically, or by any sort of logic, really. It’s been somewhat fascinating to watch, but Stiles is starting to get a little bored. 

“What are you reading?” He asks, tugging on one of his laces. 

“None of your business.” 

“It doesn’t seem to be very good, with your face looking like that.” 

Derek lifts his face to level his glare on Stiles instead of the book. Stiles gestures to him and raises a brow. Clearly it’s a bad book.

“It’s none of your business.” 

“I’m just concerned for your face, dude,” Stiles replies, giving his lace a hard tug. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to let your face get stuck?” 

Something flickers in Derek’s expression—a second of surprise and maybe hurt—before it hardens again. He glares at Stiles for a long minute before looking back at the book. Stiles frowns and looks away for a moment, feeling a bit guilty for obviously stumbling onto something sensitive. Honestly, he’s not very good at interacting with people. Both Danny and Heather live in the same sort of mellow, almost nihilistic state of mind that most Retrievers fall into. Stiles hasn’t ever really fit in, not with his curiosity, his need to fill the silence, and his weird dancing. 

He wonders, vaguely, if he’s just broken. Unfixable. 

He must be, he killed his own father after all. 

Suddenly, Derek’s moving across the room, and there’s a book shoved under his nose. 

“Have you ever heard of them?” 

Stiles tilts his head as he reads the title. “The Dread Doctors? No?” 

Derek seems to deflate in front of him. 

“I mean, should I have? Are they as big as Harry Potter?” 

“I just thought... never mind.” Derek moves to pull the book back, but Stiles snatches it from his hands and flips it over to read the back. 

“Huh, I never pegged you for this kind of pulp-horror stuff.” Stiles puts on a deep voice, _“In a small New England town, teenagers are taken in the night and buried alive. Days later they emerge transformed wreaking havoc and spreading terror, commanded by an ancient order of parascientists known only as the Dread Doctors.—_ sounds fun, but considering you’ve got dead people piled up by a tree and you look like you haven’t slept in ten years, maybe read something a little lighter? Ever heard of Dostoyevsky?” 

“The Dread Doctors are who killed those people,” Derek replies sharply. “They were their ‘failures’, apparently. Whatever happens when their experiments go wrong.” 

A shiver runs through Stiles’ body, and he flips the book back over to study the cover. There is a sort of familiar feeling to the name, like he’s heard it before. But, that’s impossible. He’d remember if anyone Retrieved someone killed by weirdos like this. 

“Why is there a book written about them?” He asks

“I don’t know,” Derek grits out. “We found out who wrote it, but he wouldn’t tell us much other than it ‘helps you remember’ the Doctors. It’s some kind of mind game.” 

“Mind games,” Stiles murmurs, staring down at the book. Mind games are dangerous. Familiar. 

Stiles flips open the book to a random page and starts to read a few lines of dialog out loud, “ _He’s different, Becky. I know Kaleb, and that wasn’t him_ —wow, deep stuff.” 

“It’s not exactly what I’d call literature,” Derek mutters, staring down at Stiles with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He seems to be waiting for something, like Stiles is somehow about to unlock the book’s secrets. Stiles honestly doubts the book actually _has_ secrets with dialogue like that. It seems more likely that the writer is playing games with this guy’s pack than actually helping them out. 

Frowning, he continues to read down the page. It’s oddly captivating, for a pulpy horror story about mutant teenagers. There’s something about it that feels right, like slipping on a glove. 

“Stiles.” 

 

_“—have to shoot him,” the man says, his stance unwavering even as the sheriff shoves at his arm. The gun doesn’t loose its aim._

_“He’s my son!”_

_“That’s not your son anymore.”_

_“Stiles is is in there—“_

“Stiles!” 

Stiles sees Derek reach out for him, and drops the book into his lap. “Wha—?” 

“You zoned out for a minute there,” Derek responds, his hand still raised as if to touch Stiles’ cheek. “Are you okay? Did you see something?” 

Stiles pulls his lower lip between his teeth and considers what just happened. 

He didn’t see much, just his dad and some guy with a gun. It sounded like they were arguing about shooting Stiles, which is kind of scary but maybe not surprising after the whole explosion thing. The explosion he’s pretty sure he caused. 

“I, uh, saw my dad again. For a second.” 

“You saw you father while you were reading the book?” 

Stiles nods. 

Frowning, Derek looks down at the book before tentatively picking it up again. He studies the page it’s open on, before turning it around and asking, “Was this the page you were on?” 

Stiles nods again, and swallows the lump forming in his throat. He doesn’t actually want to see whatever that was again. 

“Keep reading,” Derek demands, shoving the book into his hands. 

“Wha—?” Stiles squeaks, fumbling the book. “No!” 

“None of us have seen a damn thing when we read it. We need to know about the Dread Doctors, Stiles.” 

“I doubt my _dad_ has anything to do with them.” 

“You’re the only one who’s seen anything when reading the book,” Derek snaps, pushing it into Stiles’ chest. “So. _Read_.” 

Stiles sputters out another weak protest, but Derek’s no-nonsense expression doesn’t change. He’s clearly not going to win this one, is he? 

“Fine!” He huffs, turning the book around and holding it up again.  “But if I get some kind of emotional trauma out of this...” 

“I’ll be sure to recommend a good lawyer and a therapist.” 

Stiles scoffs, and starts to read again. 

At first, it’s just the words running through his mind. More Becky and Kaleb stuff. Kaleb is a monster now, apparently. Some kind of aberration, a step away from ‘God’s creation’ or whatever the writer is spouting. Kaleb thinks he’s some sort of upgrade to humanity, while Becky’s sobbing about how horrific everything is and ‘can he even love, anymore?’ 

It’s honestly kind of tedious, until the words start to ooze together. 

Sliding down the page. 

 

_He panics the first time it happens at school, rubbing his eyes and pushing the book away from him. The second—the third time, he gets angry. He doesn’t know why it’s happening. It feels like a betrayal._

_By then, other things are starting to lose shape around him. Gaps in his memory, lumps of time he can’t get back—and people... people seem off to him. When did his best friend get so grating? Stiles just wants to wrap his fingers around his throat and—_

_But that’s not all, no. His teachers look down on him, it’s not right. His father, too. They deserve to know how much he’s worth. And he’s worth a lot more than anyone realizes. So clever. Nothing like a solid imagination to feed that gray-area mind of his._

_And all those little mundane lives out there. Another small town full of small souls. He could just eat them up._

_He could just eat_ **_everyone_ ** _up._

 

Stiles jerks away from the book, sending it flying into Derek’s chest. 

“I don’t—I don’t want to read anymore,” he whispers, curling his fingers into the fabric of his robes and holding on for dear life. 

Derek seems to hesitate before bending down to pick up the book. He slips it closed, and holds it loosely by his hip. 

“I don’t want to ask, but...” 

“It wasn’t the Dread Doctors,” Stiles replies. “I don’t think it has anything to do with what’s going on here.” 

“You didn’t see anything happening to Beacon Hills?” 

Stiles sees the sheriff’s station blow up again. Sees the sign hanging beside the door. 

 

“No,” he lies. “N-nothing to do with Beacon Hills.”  


End file.
